


Chapter 6.5: Dignity

by Synchron



Series: The Devil's Pact [2]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: F/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Public Masturbation, am I even allowed to say something isn't canon when this is fanfic??, d-don't look at me...., not canon!!!!!!!!, this is just filthy jfc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 03:17:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21092510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synchron/pseuds/Synchron
Summary: Just a dirty little AU(??) that takes place directly after chapter 6 of my ongoing fic, The Devil's Pact.





	Chapter 6.5: Dignity

**Author's Note:**

> **Me:** Devil's Pact is my excuse for writing shameless smut!!  
**Also me:** Oh no this is too shameless to be canon for Devil's Pact, LET'S JUST MAKE IT A SEPARATE SPIN OFF AU ONE SHOT!!!!!!
> 
> What the hell have I even come to when I need to write AU smut for a smut fic. Honestly...
> 
> But for real, I'm so sorry that it came to this?! I just.... I just couldn't let the notion of Obscenely Horny Vergil slip by without capitalising on it, so here's a weirdo AU where Vergil actually does slink off to a public bathroom to relieve himself. 😭😭 Contrary to what the title would lead you to believe, there's no dignity to be found here. None at all. I'm so, so, sorry everybody.... please avert your eyes.......

He can't leave like this; not with his blood pulsing through his veins in a tumultuous inferno; not when his pants are so uncomfortably tight with an unbearable _ stickiness _ that every step he takes is like a physical burden; and certainly not when he can still smell your arousal even though your panties are tucked safely away into his coat. He should be better than this. He should be above this. But as he makes his way into a public bathroom, those thoughts become less intrusive, less of a concern, making way for the more pressing matter that throbs and twitches inside his trousers. Vergil only spares the briefest of glances around the dimly lit toilet to ensure each and every stall is empty before he heads into the one at the very end of the line, slamming the door shut behind him and bolting it locked.  
  
His brow twitches faintly, equal parts frustrated (of the angry kind, mind you, not the ah… other sort) and disappointed that things have come to this. Being cooped up inside the stall brings up a depressing air of finality somehow, insinuating that he's well and truly lost this round. The last time something like this happened, when you left him that filthy and impudent voice mail, he can still say he came out on top at the end, satisfied (in more ways than the one) that his encounter with you went more or less the way he wanted it to - with you keening and positively writhing under his touch. But this time, things are different. There's no gratifying outlet for his pent up frustrations here, no victory awaiting him in the form of your spent and ruined body underneath him. Just himself…  
  
...and those soaked panties you cheekily tucked into his vest.  
  
_ Fuck _ .  
  
The glove on his right hand is the first thing to go, then his belt and pants are being undone faster than he cares to admit, and good lord, it's no wonder his pants were so uncomfortable when he's well and truly soaked through his own underwear with his precum alone. Vergil is still agonizingly hard when he pulls his cock, oversensitive to the point of delirium and entirely flushed with an angry shade of red, out of his pants and the simple action of wrapping his own hand around his shaft results in a hiss of air being sucked between his teeth. Giving himself a tentative stroke, Vergil's legs nearly actually give out from under him at how immediate, how _ raw _ the pleasure is, and he's well aware that he won't last long like this. He just can't decide whether that's a blessing or a curse right now.  
  
Reaching his other hand into his coat, he retrieves your wadded up panties, flipping them open on his palm and staring down into them as if in a trance. He didn't really get a good look at them when you initially opened the door to let him into your apartment, and he was otherwise preoccupied when he had you in his lap, but looking at them now, they're a scant little thing - silk and mostly lace with a cute, innocuous bow adorning the thin elastic of the waistband. It's a stark contradiction to the infuriating little minx he knows you to be, and yet that's where the allure resides, funnily enough. The scent of you on them is still so strong, but of course it would be when you soaked them through enough that the gusset of your panties is _ visibly _ wet. _ Still _ visibly wet. So you're cheeky _ and _ vaguely sadistic, getting off on the mere idea that _ he _ wasn't.  
  
<strike> But isn't he exactly the same way with you? </strike>  
  
He's truly lost it, he thinks, as he slowly raises your panties to his face, his hazy, pale eyes sliding closed as he breathes in the overwhelming scent of you. It hits his senses harder than it ever has before, almost to the point of light-headedness, and he has to wonder, is it because he was edged for nearly an hour and constantly denied his final pleasure in a never ending cycle that all of his senses are in overdrive? Is he truly so needy, so _ wanting _ , that the slightest trace of you invading his perception throws him into a sensory chaos?  
  
Maybe.  
  
Probably.  
  
Does it really matter?  
  
He's thinking way too much about this.  
  
Fuck, he's so hard.  
  
Vergil opens his eyes, distantly notes that his cock is leaking enough precum again that it's slowly coating his fingers in a familiar and sticky warmth, and he can't help but give himself another pump, his hips jolting forward when his hand glides so smoothly over his cock. At this rate, he won't even last a full minute, but who even cares? He's already locked himself up in a stall in a public bathroom, how much lower could he possibly fall? Not low enough that he'll put off his own orgasm, certainly. He's too far gone for that now. He's just glad you'll never need to hear of this.  
  
Ever.  
  
Pulling your panties from his face, he (begrudgingly) releases the grip he has on his cock, lays the thin material out in his lubricated hand and then resumes his hold. The sensation is new, different and muted, but not unpleasant. Nothing could be at this point. But most importantly, your panties dulls the sensation of his own hand on his needy cock, providing _ just enough _ of a foreign and unfamiliar feel that it adds something of a buffer to prolong the intense pleasure that threatens to consume him. Vergil's other hand rises to plant itself firmly on the wall in front of him, bracing himself physically _ and _ mentally before dipping his head and losing himself in the feel of your silken panties rubbing and tugging and pulling at his skin. If he closes his eyes, he can get away with the fantasy of you, still in his lap, rutting and grinding your clothed cunt on his cock. If he _ really _ tries, he can pretend his hand is the swollen, puffy lips of your labia moulding around his shaft as you roll your hips against him, so hot, and so wet… God, he can almost hear the noises you'd be making, the whiny, airy nature of your voice pitching as the version of you in his mind nears release. You're saying his name too, in between your mewls of how _ fucking good _ you feel, repeating it helplessly to match the increasing rhythm of his hand.  
  
More, ever more precum drools from the tip of his cock, but the material of your panties soaks it up, serving only to make his strokes faster, smoother, _ better _ , and Vergil has to cant his head to the side and press his face into his arm to muffle a low groan. His head is beginning to spin, and he doesn't think he's ever felt pleasure like this before - it's so potent that he has to actively concentrate on keeping his eyes from rolling back into his head.  
  
He's really going to cum like this. With your soaked and defiled panties wrapped around his cock as he pumps furiously to the thought of you grinding against him, and the phantom lilt of your wanton voice in his ear. Vergil's body is trembling, tensing as every muscle in his body pulls taut. His pulse is racing, his breathing is harsh and jagged, his heart is _ hammering _ \-- but just a few more strokes and the ecstasy will overtake him. Just a few more passes, god he's so closehe'ssoclosefuckfuck _ fuck--!! _  
  
And then he hears the bathroom door open.  
  
Immediately, everything - his hand, his breaths, even his impending orgasm - comes to a skidding, screeching stop, a complete standstill. Up against the wall, he clenches his hand into a fist, feeling the bite of his fingernails on the inside of his palm even through the leather of his glove. Why now?! _ Why now?! _ Vergil's pulse is ringing in his ears, and the tension he can feel in his brow borders on painful. Though perhaps not as much as the blunt, throbbing pain between his legs as he's denied yet another orgasm, forcing him to snarl right into his arm. Fuck, if he were any more cognizant, he'd have heard whatever idiot was coming from a mile off.  
  
No, that isn't really right. If he were any more aware, he wouldn't even _ be _ here in the first place.  
  
The sound of his pulse beating in his ears begins to die down, and from somewhere behind him, Vergil hears the faucet squeak on. That's a good sign - it means whoever dared to impede his moment of privacy (in a _ public _ bathroom?) likely doesn't intend to stay for long. And thank fuck for that, because he doesn't think he has it in him to put up with another round of this cruel torture. He takes a long, drawn out breath, feeling sweat dot on whatever skin is exposed to the open air of the air conditioned bathroom. The contrast of the heat of his body and the cold sweat helps to ground him somewhat, but when his cock twitches in his hand, defiant on his behalf, Vergil swallows thickly, and his hand begins moving of its own accord before he can really stop it - not that he would want to the second it does, because he's already too caught up in salvaging that lost pleasure, in building himself back up to glorious peak. The motion of his hand is slow, gentle, even a little unsure, and he hates that he can feel a flush rise to his cheeks because this, _ this _ is debauchery in its most raw form.  
  
But he can't stop.  
  
Vergil listens as footsteps make their way back to the door, listens as it pulls open, and they make their way through. He stands there, gently massaging his tender and aching cock, waiting another few harrowing seconds _ just in case _ before he decides he has to end this now. All caution is then thrown to the wind, his strokes become frenzied in their haste as he huffs short, rapid breaths into the sleeve of his coat. He adjusts his grip, applies more pressure, tightens his hold on every stroke just as he reaches the head of his cock, and he thinks of you; of how he should have pulled the straps of your tank top down over your breasts to seal his lips over one of your nipples when he had the chance; of how he should have honestly just taken you there on the couch, helplessly pinning your hips to his as he ruts into you and making you whimper; of how (he hopes) that you're currently lying back on your bed with your hand inside your fresh pair of panties and actually crying his name; of… of...  
  
Ohfuckshitgoddamnit _ finally _ \--  
  
Rapture, pure and blissful and euphoric and _ immoral _ courses through him as he barely scrabbles just in time to bundle your panties at the head of his cock, using it to catch spurt after spurt after spurt of his cum as he revels in the full body shudders of each pulse of his orgasm. He's only half aware that he's moaning directly into his arm, trying to thrust his hips forward to bury more of his cock into your panties. The heat that blooms inside the flimsy material begins to overflow, but Vergil can't bring himself to care at the moment - prioritising milking the top half of his cock and riding out the final waves of his deserved orgasm with quiet grunts, stuttered curses and half moaned, half hissed versions of your name. And finally, when he's spent, when his ejaculation simmers down to a slow and gentle ooze from the tip of his glans, only then does he relax, shoulders drooping as his body finally, _ finally _ loosens up, and he can now revel in the sheer relief of one of the most intense orgasms he's had in a while.  
  
But that's when the clarity hits him, and when he looks down at his flagging cock in his hand, with your sullied panties covering the tip and dripping, _ actually dripping _ with ropes of his cum, he scrunches his brow and closes his eyes again for a very different reason.  
  
How crass. How disgusting. What the hell have you done to him?  
  
The thud of Vergil's head hitting the wall as he slumps against the side of the stall echoes in the lonely bathroom.  
  
The sound of defeat.  
  
...at least you'll never know.

**Author's Note:**

> *stares at at hands with empty, soulless eyes.........* I'm not even going to _try_ to defend myself


End file.
